Anger rides me.
Bridled with aggression, my tongue gripped by fury, my head comes up
and my hooves flail in the air until spurs of hate cut into my flanks
making me bleed even as they make me run.
Anger does not let me trot or canter. It demands a gallop,
working me until my lungs burn and my heart is ready to burst.
When it is sated, anger dismounts and walks away,
leaving me still saddled and sore and ashamed
that I am so broken-in by habit and use
that I can no longer remember running
just for the joy of it.
©mike finn 2014